Page 21

Cherry

A violent sneeze rips through my body and I hang on to the door handle to keep steady.

“Ouch.”

My ribs throb from the effects of the sneeze and the days of never-ending coughing that preceded it, and I give in to the inevitable.

Gingerly, I bend over and take off my shoes, walking back to the king-sized bed in the middle of the room and sinking into it.

I’m not going anywhere.

Fishing my phone out of my backpack, I message Serena.

Cherry

Yeah, I’m too sick to make it.

Her response is immediate and I can hear the ‘I told you so’ in the tone of her text.

Serena

Good. It’s for the best. You are SICK.

She’s right. She’s been right all weekend, but I’ve been in denial about the whole thing.

This was my first time in Italy and I was dying to see and do as much as I could while I was here.

Unfortunately, my immune system didn’t get the memo and went on strike, leaving me with a cold that is turning mutant.

Cherry

Can you let the team know?

Her reply with a thumbs up tells me she’s now in the thick of it all and is too busy to type words. Today is race day and if I wasn’t on my deathbed, I’d be there next to her running around with my camera to capture the last-minute preparation before lights out.

“Not today,” I croak.

With the decision made to stay home and nurse myself back to health, I change into my pyjamas, each movement of my body causing a jolt to my brain.

I hadn’t felt this bad yesterday, or even this morning when I’d informed Serena ‘I was fine to come to work,’ but it seems I’ve taken a turn for the worse.

This is the sort of cold where the usual over-the-counter medications don’t seem to work.

The sort of cold where my head is throbbing, my nose is blocked, my throat is on fire, and I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest.

“Not good.”

I lie my aching head back against the pillow and pull the blanket over my shivering body. A minute ago, I was boiling hot, so it’s safe to assume I have a fever to go along with all the phlegm.

My phone vibrates on the table next to me and I wince at the sound.

Nicky

You’re sick ?

Ah, that hadn’t taken long. For the last two days, I’d been avoiding him for several reasons. One: I knew I had some sort of cold and didn’t want to risk giving it to him. And two: we decided to keep our distance until the public spotlight is off us.

Cherry

I’m fine. Focus on the race.

My eyes hurt from just sending that message and I throw my phone to the side. Sleep is the best course of action to get over this cold, but I refuse to miss watching Nicky’s race. I swallow two paracetamol tablets to help combat the fever and turn the TV on to the sports channel.

“Ah, the driver's parade.”

I turn off the lights and settle back on my pillow, thrilled that I at least get to see Nicky on my TV screen.

My phone vibrates next to me.

Nicky

Do you need anything? I can send James to get it.

Poor James. These days, it feels like he’s working for both of us.

Cherry

How are you texting me? I’m watching you on TV.

I squint at the brightness of the screen across the room from me. My eyes aren’t playing tricks on me; Nicky is there with all the other nineteen drivers. Only he’s got his head down, staring at his phone.

Nicky

I’m multi-tasking .

Cherry

I’m going to need proof that this is happening in real-time.

His lips twitch into a smile on my screen.

Nicky

What sort of proof?

Cherry

Do the chicken dance!

I watch as he barks out a laugh and feel a warmth inside that has nothing to do with my fever.

Nicky

I’m not doing that.

Cherry

Come on. It will cheer me up…

I hold my breath and watch as he peers right down the barrel of the camera and moves his arms lighting fast up and down.

He did it. I can’t believe he did it. And I didn’t even need my dimple this time.

Cherry

You are my hero.

Nicky

Now seriously, how are you feeling?

Cherry

Seriously, I’m fine. It’s just the sniffles.

A wracking cough makes me a liar and I’m glad he can’t see or hear me .

Cherry

Concentrate on the race.

Nicky had qualified in P3 yesterday and has his work cut out for him if he wants to take the win today. Imola is a track where cars can overtake each other, but it’s difficult.

Nicky

Are you sure you’re okay?

I see the way he frowns at his phone and I chuckle, then sneeze, then cough.

Cherry

YES!

Go win this race.

Another smile, smaller this time, tips his lips and he pockets his phone, turning to give the crowd his attention. They adore him here, his fans holding up ‘We Heart Nicky’ signs and chanting his name in Italian accents.

I watch the parade until my heavy eyelids droop close. Everything hurts; I’ll just take a little nap now and then I’ll be ready for when the lights go out and away they go.

· · · · ·

A loud knocking draws me from the darkness and I sit bolt upright; unsure of where I am, what day it is, what time it is, and who could be banging on my door right now.

“Hang on!” I call out through a mouth filled with cotton wool. Or at least that’s what it feels like .

I look around the room, searching for a clue as to what’s happening. The scene on my TV fills in the blanks a little. There’s an Italian game show playing—it looks like a version of Deal or No Deal .

What happened to the race? How long was I asleep?

“Cherry?”

Nicky, calling my name from the other side of the door, somewhat answers that question. When I’d last seen him, he was gearing up for the race, and now he’s here. Standing outside my hotel door.

“Seriously, Cherry. I need to know you’re alright.”

His voice has an edge to it and it spurs me into action. “Coming.”

I swing my feet onto the floor, shivering as the cool air around me touches my sweat-covered skin. Looks like my fever is still alive and kicking.

I open the door and hang on to the frame to keep upright. “Hey.”

“Cherry, sweetheart,” he breathes, his eyes creasing with concern. “You look horrible.”

I’m too sick to take offence, but I file it away for later. For those moments when I’m lying in bed searching for something to feel mortified about.

“I’m fine.” My teeth chatter and I hold my jaw tight to stop them.

He fixes me with a withering stare. “You. Are. Not. Fine.”

I sneeze and hold my sore ribs, feeling very sorry for myself. “Don’t yell at me.”

Tears sting my eyes and his whole demeanour softens. “Come here.” He pulls me into his arms and I collapse against him. He’s so warm and so solid.

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

He swings me up into his arms and carries me into the room. “On second thought,” his nose crinkles as he looks around. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll tidy up in here.”

A shower sounds both amazing and exhausting, and I’m too weak to argue either way.

“Okay.”

He helps me to the ensuite bathroom, pausing at the door to run his hand over my tangled hair. “If you need me, call out for me.”

Ah. That’s nice.

“Okay.”

I close the bathroom door and sit on the toilet lid to gather enough energy to get naked and in the shower. Through the door, I hear Nicky on the phone, asking for the bed linen to be changed and for some soup to be brought up.

Huh. Soup? My stomach doesn’t hate the thought of it.

Shower first. Then soup.

“How are you doing in there?”

I nod.

“Cherry? Are you okay?”

“Ah, yes. I’m good.”

He grumbles about me being far from good and my lips twitch.

Using my last bit of energy, I get in the shower and wash away the grime and sweat and germs from my body before wrapping myself in the Egyptian cotton robe hanging on the back of the door.

The shower has made me feel a little better, but realistically it’s like moving from death to death warmed up.

Nicky is standing with his hands on his hips, staring out of the window when I open the bathroom door, and he whips around to face me when he hears me .

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

I clutch my robe together and wobble out a smile. “A little better.”

“Here, get back into bed.”

He guides me back under the fresh covers and pulls the blanket up under my chin, tucking me in as snug as a bug.

“I’ve ordered you some soup. Chicken soup,” he says while laying his hand on my forehead. It feels cool against my fevered skin, and I sigh with relief at his touch.

“You’re burning up.”

Yes. ‘Tis true.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Hard to say. What day is it?”

His frown grows deeper. “It’s Sunday.”

I bolt upright. “Sunday! That’s right.” I look at the now blank TV screen. “Did you win?”

He gently pushes me back down to my pillow. “I did.”

“Yay!” I wince and cough. He frowns some more. “Yay,” I repeat more softly. “Congrats, Nicky.”

“Let’s not worry about that. I think we need to take you to a doctor.”

The thought of leaving this bed sounds terrible. “I’ll be fine after I rest.”

I can see the indecision written all over his face. “Fine, but if you get any worse, we’re going.”

“Sure.” I snuggle down into my fresh sheets. It feels nice against my skin.

“Do you want to sleep now? Or eat?”

My stomach revolts. I guess soup is off the table again. “I think I need to sleep. ”

He hovers over me next to my bed, his concerned eyes running over me, and I grab his hand before he can move away. “Can you stay?”

I know I sound weak and pathetic, but there’s nothing like being alone when you’re sick. It makes everything feel ten times worse.

“Of course I’m going to stay.”

He drags an armchair from across the room and places it next to the bed, while I swallow down any disappointment that he chose not to join me in this bed.

You’re a snotty, sweaty, gross, sick person, Cherry. Of course he’s going to sit next to the bed.

“You sleep. I’ll be right here.”

I want to thank him. To tell him he can leave once I fall asleep. To remind him he’s just won a Formula 1 Grand Prix and must be exhausted. And to say that I know he must have somewhere else more important to be. But I don’t say any of these things.